Dark Mirrors
by Sabraia
Summary: Nations possess powerful magic peculiar to their kind. But this magic is largely unknown, even to the nations who have long since forgotten their own power. The few humans that have tried to harness it for themselves have failed. When a series of seemingly unrelated events brings the nations' power within human reach, the result threatens to unravel the fabric of reality itself.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I have finally devised a story to fit an idea I've had floating in my head for a while. While not a direct sequel to my previous works, this story will be tangentially related. Hope you enjoy.**

* * *

Every once in a great while, America visits an old mansion in the Virginia countryside. Being one of the first homes he lived in, the mansion holds a multitude of memories for the young nation. He spent much of his childhood there. He had turned it into a secret arsenal during the Revolution. He had entertained Congressmen and presidents there. And, during the Civil War, he had witnessed his own Union artillery destroy part of it during a battle.

The mansion was eventually restored, but ever since 1865, America has only come by on rare and brief visits. In the 1920s, he took Lithuania with him on one such visit, only to spend the majority of the time cleaning out the storage rooms. Some items, like a musket he had used in the Revolution, America decided to keep for sentimental value. However, many other items were thrown away, dismissed by America himself as century-old junk.

America would return to the mansion every few decades to wander its halls, and take a walk down memory lane. He generally explored the same places; the parts of the mansion that had the strongest memories for him. For instance, he liked to sit in the parlor, allowing his memory to recreate the image of a past president sitting in the chair next to him. On a visit commemorating the hundredth anniversary of the end of the Civil War, he wandered the part of the mansion where he remembered those artillery shells had struck.

But in all those years, America had neglected the storage rooms. Nothing new had been placed there, and that cleaning session from the 1920s had been a thorough enough job. There was no real reason to go in there again. And yet, nearly a century later, America felt an odd compulsion to finally re-visit that part of the mansion.

He parked his car nearby the gates of the premises, got out and spent a minute just staring at the 18th century plantation style architecture of the outside of the mansion. He let out a sigh and walked up to the porch.

"Maybe I'll turn this place into a museum…" he muttered to himself as he went inside.

He went rather hurriedly through the foyer, and past the parlor, not even giving it a second glance as he headed for the hall that would take him to the storage rooms. That didn't stop the wave of nostalgia from hitting him anyway.

"Then again… nah." He shook his head and went on.

Eventually, he reached the storage room door. He opened the door, and was instantly greeted with the dusty smell of a century's worth of neglect. By reflex, he reached in and felt along the wall next to the door, looking for a nonexistent light switch. Muttering a mild curse under his breath, America then reached into his pocket and withdrew his phone. Holding the brightly lit phone screen in front of him, America then stepped across the threshold and began to explore.

His eyes came to rest first on his Revolutionary era musket. During his last visit, he had done some repair work on the venerable weapon, and it still stood propped up against the wall where he had left it. America smiled, even as another wave of nostalgia hit. He took a few steps further in and turned his attention elsewhere.

Further in, almost in the corner, stood a six foot tall mirror. Its frame was so rusted that the original color was impossible to determine, and centuries' worth of dust obscured the glass. America went up to stand directly in front of the mirror. Unsurprisingly, the dust completely hid his reflection. Switching his phone over to his left hand, America reached out and brushed some of the dust off the glass with his right. His fingers left trails where the dust had been, but America repeated the process several times until enough of the glass had been cleared to the point where America should have been able to see his face at least.

America's rather careless handiwork revealed dark, discolored glass behind all the dust – another result of years of neglect, no doubt. Even so, America's reflection finally became visible. He stood there for a minute, staring at it. As he stood there, the room seemed to grow darker. However, America barely noticed, being too absorbed with the mirror. With some reluctance, he eventually tore his gaze away and looked to other things.

Next to the mirror sat a large, locked trunk. The key hung on a peg on the wall just above it. Even though he already knew what was in it, America unlocked and opened the trunk anyway.

Several uniforms, spanning several wars, lay neatly folded in one corner. On top of the uniforms sat a stack of letters tied together with a string. America picked up the letters, and frowned.

"Why did I keep these?"

He untied the string and set all but the topmost letter down. He opened the letter and began to read it. His frown deepened.

The letter opened with "Dear Mother", and closed with a name America did not recognize. It was dated September 20, 1862.

"How did this get in here?"

Setting that letter aside, America tried another one. Upon seeing this one was also written by and to people America was sure he didn't know, he sat back on his heels and took a brief glance around the room. Immediately, something was clearly off.

The musket, which America had not touched at any point when he entered the room, now lay on the floor. He frowned at it for a second, then quickly rose to his feet. He turned around to face the door. The door was closed. While that explained how the room got darker, America had not bothered to close the door upon entering the room either. Someone else must have closed it.

"I swear to God, Tony…" America said, going up to the door and reopening it. "You better not have followed me here to play a prank…"

He stepped out into the hallway and immediately froze at the sight that greeted him. A young man with blond hair and ice blue eyes stood just a few feet down the hall from where America stood. The man wore a light-colored suit, glasses, and was carrying what appeared to be a rolled up newspaper.

"What the hell?" America and the stranger said in unison.


	2. Chapter 2

America took a step back, keeping his gaze locked on the stranger. The stranger stepped back as well, and at the exact same time. As America brought his feet together to stand at full height, the stranger did the same.

"What…?"

America frowned as the stranger even spoke the same word in perfect sync with him. He paused, staring down the stranger as he thought of what to do. As America stood there curiously watching the stranger, the stranger eyed him with the same quizzical expression. When America took a hesitant step forward, the stranger mirrored his movement.

Those steps taken by both men placed them just within arms' reach. America reached forward, and, just as he expected, the stranger also reached forward. Their fingers came within an inch of each other, and America balked for just a second. He looked the stranger directly in the eyes, then inched his hand forward. A second later, America had to look back at his hand, utterly bewildered.

Part of the stranger's hand had disappeared. Instead of touching hands, any part of the stranger's hand that passed the edge of America's fingertips vanished. But when America withdrew his hand, the stranger copied the movement, and his hand reappeared.

"What is going on here?" America demanded, too confused to take note of the stranger speaking the exact same words.

America took another, more decisive stride forward. As he and the stranger moved, the stranger's entire body disappeared the instant before he would have made contact with America. America turned around, looking the hallway up and down, but the stranger was gone. He shook his head.

"Tony had better have a good explanation for this…" America muttered as he headed back to the storage room.

As he reached for the door handle, he glanced inside. The musket had somehow returned to its upright position, leaning against the wall once more. America stared blankly at it for several seconds before heaving an annoyed sigh and closing the door. He turned around slowly, half-expecting to see the stranger reappear in the hallway. When that did not happen, America walked down the hallway and back to the parlor without incident.

However, America cut his stay short. Instead of staying in the parlor for a little longer, he headed outside. Stopping next to his car, America returned his attention to his phone. He quickly scrolled through his contacts, then, as he leaned against the side of his car, made a phone call.

 **(-)**

Meanwhile, several time zones away, England sat down at the table of an empty conference room. Germany had decided to convene a meeting for a handful of nations on somewhat short notice, so England had booked the first flight he could get. To his surprise, he arrived in Berlin ahead of schedule, and so he sat alone in the conference room, waiting on the others.

During the wait, England pulled out his phone to check out the news. He perused the stories by topic, briefly skimming through several political stories, checking on some sports teams, and going through the weather report. Upon checking the time, and realizing he had more time to kill, England kept looking through other news stories. A few minutes later, he ended up finding a science article on quantum mechanics.

"Huh."

Shrugging his shoulders, England went ahead and opened the article. Some of the technical language was borderline incomprehensible, but England kept reading anyway. Part of the way through, however, he paused. He reread the passage a couple of times. Each time, the same words stuck out.

"…the possibility of alternate universes…" England muttered as he read.

He lowered the phone, letting it rest on his lap. Right as he turned his gaze to the wall, his attention was abruptly diverted to the door as it swung open. A second later, Germany entered the room.

"Good afternoon, England," he said, quickly making his way to the table and taking a seat.

"Good afternoon, Germany," England replied.

After their greeting, the room fell silent again. England returned his attention to his phone. He finished reading the article, and quickly exited the news screen afterwards. Then, putting the phone on silent, England put it in his pants pocket. He and Germany sat for a few more moments in silence, and then the other nations slowly began to make their way in.

Poland was the next nation to enter. He promptly took his seat next to Germany. Scant seconds after Poland's arrival, France and Spain entered the room and joined everyone at the table. While Spain sat nearby the Italy brothers, France took the chair immediately to England's left. After France sat down, England scooted discreetly to the right side of his own chair, pretending not to take note of the Frenchman.

Over the next couple of minutes, the remaining nations filed in and took their seats. Italy and Romano sat down at the far end of the table, and immediately started conversing with each other in whispered Italian. Austria sat down on the other side of Germany. Belgium and the Netherlands came in last, and they sat beside France. Glancing over the table, satisfied that everyone was present, Germany then loudly cleared his throat and started the meeting.

"All right," he began. "The primary focus of today's meeting will be on economic issues…"

Germany went on to rattle out a series of numbers and statistics that England barely paid attention to. He listened just enough to give input when asked, but for much of the meeting, England tuned out.

The meeting dragged on for over an hour on the subject of everyone's economies. However, as the meeting started winding down, Germany changed the subject.

"And, before anyone leaves, there's a journalism student waiting in the lobby," Germany said. "He asked if he could interview some of us."

"What about?" England asked.

"Something to do with international relations," Germany replied. "Just give him a convincing pseudonym story. He won't stay long."

Spain chuckled to himself and also rose from his seat. One by one, the rest of the nations at the table stood up, and slowly meandered their way to the exit. Germany took the lead and headed down the hall at a brisk walk. Going at that pace, he reached the lobby first.

A blond-haired young man, most likely in his late teens or early twenties, sat alone by the wall in the lobby. A clipboard and pen rested in his lap. Upon seeing Germany enter the lobby, however, the man seized his items and rose to his feet.

England quickly followed Germany into the lobby, and some of the other nations were not far behind England. The young man began to slowly walk in their direction, even as Germany and England also started to close the gap. They met in the center of the room, and the stranger tucked his clipboard under his arm, and extended his right hand. He shook hands with Germany, and then England.

"Good afternoon," he said. "My name is Andrew, um…"

He paused and glanced behind England, noting the increasing number of people filling the lobby.

"Do you mind if I interview you individually?" Andrew asked. "It won't take long; just a few questions each."

England exchanged fleeting glances with Germany.

"Not all of us can stay very long," England said. "We're on busy schedules."

Andrew's eyes went wide.

"Oh, no, I'm not asking to interview _all_ of you," he said apologetically. "But, if a couple of you have a few minutes…"

England paused to think for a few seconds.

"All right, I can spare a few minutes for you," he said. He gestured to the hall. "Just find the nearest open room."

Andrew nodded. "Thank you, sir."

With that, Andrew headed toward the hallway, while England followed several paces behind him. Andrew hurried to the first door he saw and knocked. When no one replied, he tried the handle and slid the door slowly open. He looked inside, and then swung the door open the rest of the way.

"This one's available," he said, then promptly went inside.

England went inside as well, closing the door behind him before taking a seat at the table in the center of the room. Andrew sat next to England, clipboard and pen in hand.

"Before we begin," Andrew said. "Uh, can you tell me your name?"

"Arthur Kirkland."

Andrew nodded, and quickly scribbled a note onto the sheet on his clipboard.

"All right, Mr. Kirkland," he said. "My first question: what is your occupation?"

"I am an ambassador for the British government."

Andrew scribbled another note.

"I should also warn you that much of what I do is classified," England continued. "I may not be able to answer all of your questions."

"That's fine," Andrew said. "So, what can you tell me about your work? Do you work on relations with a particular country?"

"When called upon by my government, I negotiate with any and all countries to which the United Kingdom has any connection."

Another pause ensued, though this one lasted longer than it took Andrew to jot his notes down. Andrew looked back at England with slightly raised eyebrows.

"I take it the rest of the answer is classified?"

England nodded.

"Okay…" Andrew glanced around, tapping his pen on his knee. "How long have you been working as an ambassador?"

"Several years," England lied. "I got my security clearance early on and have been working for the government ever since."

Andrew wrote down some more notes. When he finished, he set the pen on the table and stared at the clipboard. The room fell silent again.

"Approximately how often would you say you go to meetings like the one you were in earlier?" Andrew asked finally.

"It varies," England said. "Sometimes I travel as many as ten times in a month; other times, I might go to just one meeting in a month."

"And the men you met with… they're all employed by their governments in similar fashion?"

"You'd have to ask them."

"Uh, yes, of course…"

Andrew picked up his pen and began writing again.

"Do you enjoy the work?"

England let out a small chuckle.

"Not always," he said. "Diplomacy can be rather tense and stressful work."

Andrew smiled as well. "I can imagine," he said. "Negotiating with other powers… it's almost like steering the course of history itself. That must be quite the burden."

"Well, you have to remember I'm not the only one at that helm," England said. "There are too many other factors not in my control that also decide a country's fate."

"True. But you would say your work makes a difference nonetheless?"

England shrugged.

"Let time and history sort that one out," he said.

Andrew raised his eyebrows, but did not comment. He simply jotted down a few more lines onto his paper. When he finished, he put the pen in his pocket and set the clipboard on the table.

"Thank you for that, Mr. Kirkland," he said as he extended his hand for a parting handshake. "I did say I wouldn't keep you long. But it's been a pleasure."

"You're welcome, Andrew."

The two men both shook hands, then both stood up. Andrew grabbed his clipboard and tucked it under his arm. England left the room first, and Andrew quickly followed him out. While Andrew joined the other nations in the lobby, seeking his next interviewee, England quietly headed for the exit.

Just a few seconds after making it out the door, England halted at the sound of approaching footsteps. He turned around to see Germany walking briskly toward him.

"Is something wrong?" England asked.

Germany shook his head. "I have a flight to catch," he replied.

"Oh."

As Germany caught up to England, the two started walking toward the parking lot together. It was awkwardly quiet for a few seconds, until England finally broke the silence.

"What do you make of this Andrew fellow?" he asked.

"He says he's a journalism student from South Carolina, and he's studying abroad," Germany replied.

England nodded thoughtfully.

"He's probably working on a project, then," he said.

Germany shrugged. "I suppose."

A little while later, they reached England's car. Germany kept going, as his car was parked further away. The two briefly waved goodbye, and England got into his car. Less than a minute later, he pulled out of the parking lot, and onto the road.


	3. Chapter 3

Much to America's annoyance, Tony had no idea what had caused that strange mirror image back at the Virginia mansion. However, America had at least successfully convinced the alien to help him investigate. Within just a few days, Tony arrived at the mansion, carrying with an armful of alien equipment with him.

America followed Tony inside the mansion, but right as Tony began setting up his equipment, America's cell phone rang. Leaving Tony to his preparations, America doubled back into one of the guest rooms to answer the call. Holding the phone in one hand, America leaned against the wall as he slowly closed the door with his free hand. He glanced down at the display on the caller ID, frowning.

America answered the phone. "Yes, sir?"

"Mr. Jones," answered a low, male voice. "You're needed back in Washington."

"What for?"

"Something just came up. We need to debrief you."

America sighed. "What happened?"

"One of our top classified assets has gone missing…"

America did a double take at his phone.

"You're calling me for a missing persons case?" he said incredulously. "What the hell does this have to do with me?"

"This is a breach of national security, Jones," came the curt reply. "It has everything to do with you. I've already dispatched a team of agents to your location; they'll accompany you back to Washington."

"I don't need an escort! Besides, I'm busy!"

America's words fell on deaf ears, for the other man promptly hung up. Shaking his head in annoyance, America pocketed his phone and headed out into the hallway. He joined Tony at the door to the storage room.

One of Tony's contraptions lay spread out on the floor. Tony himself had opened the door of the storage room and was poking around inside, holding another one of his alien devices in one hand. America stood next to the threshold, peering in to watch Tony work.

"CIA director just called," America said.

Tony froze for a second, then pivoted on the spot to face America. He tilted his head slightly to one side.

"He wants me back in DC," America continued. "He's already sent some guys to pick me up. I don't know how long this will take; just send me a message with whatever you find, all right?"

Tony nodded, then went right back to his work. Meanwhile, America slowly sauntered his way back to the foyer.

Upon entering the foyer, America sat in the nearest chair he saw and pulled out his phone. He perused the various apps and games for a while, but quickly grew bored and rose to his feet again. He paced the foyer for a minute, then went outside.

America stopped in front of his car, which he had parked by the front gate. Reaching for his keys, America then unlocked the car. He reached for the handle of the driver's side door, but hesitantly pulled the door open.

Depending on when the director had actually sent them out, the escort would likely arrive within either a few minutes, or not for at least an hour. Taking a moment to weigh his options, America then jumped into the driver's seat. He closed the door, turned the car on, and drove off the property.

"He wants me in DC? Fine…"

 **(-)**

America arrived in his capital a short time later without incident. However, as he started to make his way through the security checkpoint to enter the Pentagon, a pair of men flagged him down. The escort team had finally caught up to him.

"Hey, guys," America said. "What's up?"

"This way, Mr. Jones," one agent said, clearly unamused. The second agent wordlessly turned and immediately started leading the way toward the Pentagon entrance.

They went inside and headed straight for the nearest briefing room. America took a seat at the table, but the agents remained standing.

"All right, what's going on that I had to be dragged back here with an escort?" America asked.

No sooner were the words out of America's mouth than the door opened, and a few more people filed in. Among them was the CIA director himself. He was accompanied by a young man carrying a laptop case, and a middle-aged woman carrying a briefcase. They sat at the table and proceeded to open their cases. The director dismissed the two agents that had escorted America in, then also took a seat.

"Normally, Mr. Jones, the CIA can handle its own missing persons cases without you having to worry about anything," the director began.

"So why call me in?" America asked.

By this point, the young man had set up and turned on the laptop. As he started opening files on the computer, the woman spread out the contents of her briefcase on the table. She handed America a manila folder. America opened it to find several pieces of paper held together with a paper clip. The topmost item was an 8'' x 10'' photograph, which America removed from the rest of the papers, examining it closely.

It was in black and white, and the only person in it was a young man seated on a chair in the center of an otherwise empty room. He had unkempt hair, with stray locks sticking out at odd angles, including one that looked like America's characteristic cowlick.

"This looks like an old picture of me," America said.

"It isn't," the director said.

America set the photo down, giving the director a doubtful look.

"Well, it's not my brother," America said. "Is this our missing person?"

"Several years ago, we rescued this man during an operation in South Carolina," the woman with the briefcase said.

"Who is he, and what does he have to with me?" America asked.

The woman gestured at the remaining papers in the manila folder. America picked up the second paper from the lot and began reading it. He frowned, nonplussed.

"Lab work? What for?"

"DNA tests, fingerprinting… we were just trying to identify him," the woman explained. "He doesn't match perfectly, but we found some uncanny similarities between his profile and yours."

America's eyebrows went up slightly. "What does that mean?"

"It most likely means that this man is one of your kind," the director replied. He gestured at the man with the computer, who then pulled up a display of a series of pictures. The first picture was a close-up of the man's face.

"We ran facial recognition scans, but he doesn't match anyone in our entire database," the man said. "The closest we got… was you."

America tilted his head for a second, examining the picture. The man's facial structure was similar to America's own; an oval-shaped face, strong chin and cheekbones, and a medium sized nose. He also had blond hair, and ice blue eyes. America blinked, looking more closely to make sure of what he was seeing. A shiver went down his spine.

This was the man he had seen in the hallway in his Virginia mansion.

America stared long and hard at the picture. The longer he looked at it, the more a nagging feeling of familiarity tugged on his mind. He _knew_ this man from somewhere, and not just from a strange and brief encounter in a hallway. Another shiver ran down his spine. Something was definitely not right.

However, America's thinking was interrupted when the computer tech hit a button, and the picture changed. The screen displayed a few more close-ups of the man's face, though these were profile views from each side. After these, the screen displayed a pair of full body shots. In the first picture, the man wore plain, off-white pants and shirt. In the second, the shirt had been removed, revealing a number of scars on the man's torso and arms.

America gave the director a sideways glance.

"Why show me _this?_ " he asked.

"Identifying features," the tech replied matter-of-factly.

"Like I said, we think he's one of yours," the director said. "But we can't identify him. Perhaps you can."

America rolled his eyes.

"Did you ask _him_?"

"Of course we did," the director said, a tinge of annoyance creeping into his voice. "Says his name is Andrew. That's all we've ever been able to get out of him."

America frowned. That same uneasy feeling crept up his spine again.

"Okay," he said.

An awkward silence fell on the room. The director, the tech, and the woman all stared expectantly at America.

"Well? Can you identify this man?" the director said.

America sighed.

"I've definitely seen him before," he said. "But there's a problem…"

The director blinked, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"How do you mean?"

"This won't make any sense…" America said, trailing off and averting his gaze for a moment. He stared past the director, at the wall. "But I saw this man in my old Virginia home the other day. Let me explain what happened…"

 **(-)**

America had discreetly sent a text to Tony, warning him of the CIA's approach as he returned with them to Virginia that evening. By the time they arrived at the front gate, Tony had already packed up and hidden his equipment. Tony himself was also nowhere to be seen as America and the handful of CIA operatives accompanying him made their way to the storage room.

However, the moment the group set foot in the foyer, all but one of the agents split off the group and began to search the mansion in groups of two. The last agent – the woman America had met at the briefing – stayed with him as he headed for the storage room.

"I thought I told you guys, you're not going to find him by searching the place," America said.

"Mr. Jones, this man is a real person, not a ghost," the woman retorted. "He cannot just vanish right in front of you. There must be some explanation for what you saw."

America said nothing, just rolled his eyes.

"Whatever," he said. "In any case, I doubt he would have stayed here."

Presently, the two came to a halt in front of the storage room door. America stepped forward and tested the door, found it unlocked. He opened the door, and gestured for the agent to follow. She stepped over the threshold, glancing around at the mess of old artifacts scattered over the floor and shelves.

While she stayed near the threshold, perusing the dusty mess, America went further into the room. He stopped in front of the mirror. As he leaned in close to inspect it, he stopped at a sudden noise from his pocket. Frowning, America reached into his pocket, withdrew his phone, and checked the new message.

It was from Tony. And it simply read: 'Something wrong with the mirror. Do not touch.'

"Huh?"

The woman turned, alerted by America's voice.

"What is it?" she asked.

America paid her no attention, but punched in a reply text to Tony. 'What happened?'

The woman walked over to America's side, looking curiously at his phone. America quickly pocketed the phone, and the woman's attention drifted to the mirror. She took a half step closer to it, leaning in very close, eyes trained on the trails left from when America had run his fingers over the glass last time.

"Hmm…"

She reached into the bag hanging at her hip and withdrew some kind of device which she immediately held up to the marks on the glass. A half a second too late, America realized what she was doing. Before he could speak up to stop her, she touched the device to the glass surface.

"You don't need to do that," America said. "Those are my fingerprints."

His phone gave the notification sound again. He reached into his pocket, ignoring the woman's scowl.

Tony had replied. But instead of a text message, he had sent a file. America opened it, and his screen displayed a series of charts with readings on them. However, on the phone's small screen, America could barely read the numbers, much less figure out what they meant. He stood there for a full minute, staring intensely at the phone screen, trying to make sense of Tony's message. Meanwhile, the woman reluctantly put away her device.

"Mr. Jones…"

America's head snapped up, and he quickly pocketed the phone. He glanced back and forth between the woman, the mirror, and the door. Finally, with a wave of his hand, he led the way back into the hallway.

The same figure from last time now stood facing them at the end of the hallway. But something was different this time. Now, a woman stood next to the man. Her posture and movement mirrored that of the CIA woman standing next to America. The man mirrored everything America did, just like last time.

America narrowed his eyes, focusing on the woman facing them at the end of the hallway. She looked exactly like the agent, except she wore a dark green dress instead of the agent's black outfit. America cast a sideways glance at the agent.

"Watch this," he said.

The agent did a double take at hearing and seeing the man at the end of the hallway copy America's actions and words at the exact same time. She looked on in disbelief as America strode forward, meeting the other man halfway down the hall, then walking right through him. America stopped and turned around, but the other man had disappeared right as America had seemed to walk through him.

"Well? What do you think, agent?"

She struggled for a minute to find any words.

"What was that?" she demanded. She jumped, startled to hear her counterpart copy her words as well.

America beckoned her forward, and she hesitantly complied. Her counterpart mirrored the movement, and presently, the two stood facing each other in the middle of the hall. The agent came to a halt, looked at America. America just waved her on more insistently. Eventually, she walked forward, right through her counterpart, and the counterpart disappeared. The agent jumped back, as if expecting her counterpart to reappear. Nothing happened.

"There you have it. Just like I said." America headed back down the hallway, closed the storage room door, and rejoined the agent. "I don't suppose there's a single person in the entire intelligence community that can explain it."

"I certainly don't," the woman said, taking a breath as if winded from the shock. "But we can dispatch a team to investigate right away…"

America waved his hand dismissively.

"Nah, I've already got that covered," he said. "Besides, I really want to hear more about this Andrew guy. I think there's still something the CIA's not telling me."


	4. Chapter 4

The CIA agents returned to Washington that night. America, meanwhile, returned to the mansion. He wandered the halls, inevitably winding up back at the storage room.

Strangely, Tony had not yet returned, nor had he sent any more messages regarding his findings. With a small sigh, America withdrew his phone from his pocket as he wandered down the hallway. He pulled up the file Tony had sent, trying once again to make sense of the charts and numbers.

Right as he reached the storage room door, the hall light suddenly went out. America's phone screen also went dark, plunging him into total darkness.

"What the – "

America pushed buttons on the phone, trying in vain to get it to turn back on. He quickly gave up and put it back in his pocket. Having done that, America then glanced around the pitch blackness around him. The hall had no windows to let in any light from outside. It was going to be several minutes' wait before America could see much of anything.

After waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, America retreated back down the hallway to the parlor. He fumbled with the door handle for a second, but managed to get inside. Moonlight shone through the parlor windows, illuminating the room just barely enough to see. America sat down on the couch near the door and reached for his phone again.

"A power outage should not have affected the phone…"

He stood up. Dropping the phone on the seat of the couch, America went over to the light switch on the wall. He flipped it back and forth a few times, but nothing happened. Frowning, he started wandering around the room. First, he went to the table, sorting through the miscellaneous items on it. He picked up a stack of old magazines, books, and newspapers, moved them aside.

He stopped abruptly at the sound of footfalls coming from the hall. He sat there, seemingly frozen in place except for his head, which he turned slowly to face the doorway.

The door stood ajar, right as America had left it. However, a shadow from something just outside darkened the already dark area near the door. America stared intensely at the door, but did not move.

The door slowly swung further open. As the door moved, the figure outside became visible. It was clearly human, stood at about America's height, and had a similarly strong build.

The stranger reached for the light switch and flipped it. Nothing happened.

"Hey…" the stranger said. He stepped further into the room, but then jumped and came to an abrupt halt. "Who are you?!"

America stood up.

"I was about to ask you the same question," he said. "And also: what the hell are you doing in my house?"

The stranger tilted his head.

" _Your_ house?" he asked.

"That's right," America said. He took a step toward the stranger. He tried to look the stranger directly in the eyes, but in the darkness, neither man could see much of the other's face.

"This is _my_ house," the stranger said, taking a step closer to America. "Now I don't know who you are, or why you're here, but I'm only going to warn you once. Now leave."

America started to let out a derisive chuckle, but caught himself a little too late. The stranger, angered by America's defiance, lunged forward and tackled him. Caught by surprise, America was knocked off his feet, and both men tumbled to the floor. They narrowly missed the table itself, but America did dislodge some of the objects on his way down. Books and papers flew in multiple directions.

Reacting quickly, America seized the man's arms, breaking the stranger's grip and shoving him aside. He then grabbed the side of the table to push himself back on his feet. The stranger, however, swung for America's head. America blocked the punch with his free hand, then rose to his feet. To his surprise, the stranger backed away instead of renewing his attack.

However, America's relief was short-lived. The stranger, now positioned behind a chair on the other side of the table, reached into his jacket. As he started to withdraw whatever it was, something made an audible clicking sound.

Without thinking, America immediately rushed his opponent. The stranger hastily lifted the object, pointing it at America in the same instant that America cleared the chair. America slammed the stranger into the wall. The crash made a loud noise, but there was another, louder noise a split second before it – a gunshot.

America stumbled backward while the stranger dropped to the floor in a crumpled heap. The force of the impact against the wall had knocked him unconscious, and blood trickled from the back of his head. America, on the other hand, clutched his stomach, pressing his hand over the gunshot wound.

"Son of a bitch…" he muttered.

He stood there for a minute, keeping pressure on the wound and gritting his teeth against the pain. While he waited, he took a good look around. Outside the window, the only thing visible was the expansive front garden and trees beyond dimly lit by the moonlight. Inside the room, the stranger still lay unconscious on the floor. The section of wall he had been slammed into was now cracked. America swore again.

Taking his hand off his wound, America knelt down and pulled the stranger away from the wall. He glanced around the floor, locating the gun where it had fallen out of the stranger's hands. He picked it up and inspected it. It was a revolver, fully loaded except for the round that was now lodged in America's gut.

America set the revolver down on the table. Then, he hoisted the man over his shoulder and carried him around the chair and the table. He made his way toward the door, but not before stopping by the couch where he had left his phone. With the phone back in his pocket, America then went to the door. The door still hung open from the stranger had come in, so America simply had to push the door just a little more to allow room for him to carry the stranger out.

He carried the stranger down the hallway in total darkness. As a precaution, America moved slowly, hugging the wall as he went. Eventually, he made it out to the foyer.

The large windows of the foyer let in the moonlight, making the room much easier to navigate. America picked up his pace. He carried the stranger to the front door, but had to stop to open the door. He gently set the man down on the floor, then reached for the door, unlocking it.

"Ugh…"

America looked down, his hand still on the door handle. The stranger had begun to stir.

"What… happened…"

The stranger rubbed the back of his head, flinching when he touched the wound. Without moving his hand, he turned his head to look up at America. Suddenly, he frantically started groping around the floor, searching for the gun.

"Relax, dude," America said. He pulled the door open.

"What are you doing?"

America paused. He stared out at the garden, and his car parked just beyond it. Surreptitiously, he reached into his left pocket, feeling around for his keys.

"Taking you to the hospital," he said. "You took a pretty nasty hit on the back of your head."

He winced as he spoke, resisting the urge to check his own wound. Meanwhile, the stranger let out a hollow laugh.

"Sure you are," he said sarcastically.

America just sighed. He reached back into his pocket, and this time he retrieved his phone. It still would not turn back on. He shoved the phone back in his pocket.

"What's your name?" America asked.

The stranger did not answer right away. Though he clearly kept his attention on America, the darkness of the room made his face unreadable.

"Andrew," he said finally.

America froze.

Andrew. That was the name of the missing man the CIA were looking for.

"And yours?" the stranger asked abruptly.

"Huh?" America said. "My name is Alfred."

America opened the door all the way. Finally releasing his grip on the door handle, he turned to face Andrew again.

"Come on," he said.

"I'm not going anywhere," Andrew said defiantly. "Why should I trust you to take me to the hospital, when _you_ broke into my house and attacked me?"

"Look, first thing is: this isn't even your house – it's mine," America said. "Second: how the hell did you get in here? This door was locked."

The room fell silent. Andrew turned his face away, as if contemplating his answer, but for over a minute, he said nothing. As the silence dragged on, America tried a different approach.

" _When_ did you get in here?" he asked.

"Probably about ten minutes ago."

America nodded thoughtfully.

"Alright. Come on."

America knelt down to help Andrew to his feet. To his relief, Andrew accepted the help. He grabbed America's hand, and America pulled him up. Andrew appeared to be quite stable on his own two feet, so America stepped over the threshold of the open door. After a second's pause, he waved Andrew after him.

"I'm not going anywhere," Andrew said. "I definitely don't need to go to the hospital. I'm not even that badly hurt."

America sighed.

"You, on the other hand," Andrew continued, before America could interrupt. "How the hell are you still standing?"

He pointed to America's abdomen. America looked down. His blood had created a stain on his shirt large and dark enough to see even in the poorly lit room. Some of the blood had also dripped onto the floor. America swore under his breath.

"We're _both_ going to the hospital," he said.

"Just call an ambulance."

"Can't."

America reached into his pocket and showed Andrew his phone.

"About ten minutes ago, something killed the power here," America said. "Shut down all electronics. Even a phone, which shouldn't be affected by regular power outages. Now, didn't you say you got here at about the same time? Ten minutes ago?"

Andrew's whole posture became tense and stiff.

"Are you trying to say I cut the power off?" he said defensively. "Cause I have no idea – "

America tried to silence Andrew with an upraised hand.

"No, dude," he said. "But there is definitely something wrong here. And it involves you. I don't know how, but…"

He trailed off, trying to think of the right words.

"I need your help."

Andrew took a step backward, suspicious.

"What do you want?"

"Well, first, I want you to come with me to the hospital," America replied. "Second, I need you to answer a few questions. I'll ask on the way."

Andrew hesitated, but finally relented, and followed America outside. America closed the door, then led the way to his car. In less than a minute, they were on their way. As America drove past the gate, and followed the road to the main highway, he and Andrew did not say a word. Several minutes later, America finally broke the silence.

"Okay, Andrew," he said. "Were you aware that you've been reported missing?"

Andrew did a double take. "By whom?"

"I don't know who reported it initially," America said. "But whatever's going on, it must be pretty bad."

"Why?"

"Because federal agents are looking for you."

Andrew visibly tensed up. He slowly turned his head, fixing his gaze on America.

"And how do you know this?"

"Because they brought me into the investigation. They think I know you."

Andrew's eyes narrowed as he studied America's face closely. The light inside the car was only slightly better than the darkness of the mansion, but he could at least see America's face.

"You're not actually taking us to the hospital, are you?"

America shot Andrew a quick glare before turning his eyes back to the road.

"Yes, I _am_ taking us to the hospital," America said, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. "I'm not kidnapping you. Jesus…"


End file.
